


Berlin

by wir_sind_die_Jager



Series: Strangers When We Meet [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 20:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11321619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wir_sind_die_Jager/pseuds/wir_sind_die_Jager
Summary: 'Even if we're not supposed to, even if we're only strangers when we meet, I can't ignore the way you're haunting me, calling to me like a beacon. You left me so I could find you.'Though they are only strangers when they meet, fate has set off a chain reaction across the globe as souls that were abruptly cut short finally have the chance to meet again and live a life of peace and love.





	Berlin

**Author's Note:**

> This was once an all-cast encompassing fanfic with the goal of a very complex plot. I've scrapped that, seeing as I have not touched the fanfic in years mostly due to the manga adding MANY more characters than I could juggle for the purposes of this fanfic. I decided to keep what I have and turn them into one shots with the same themes and reincarnation element. Enjoy.

Armin Arlert looked down his button nose at the mini tape recorder held in the journalists' hands, his deep blue eyes watching the tiny little spindles twirl around as they captured his every word.

“Where did you find the inspiration for your latest piece _Colossus_?”  
  
“Inspiration is deeply subjective,” Armin began, curling his fair hair around one ear. “As well as an abstract concept. Perhaps it was a dream, or a reoccurring nightmare. Maybe a trauma of a past life. Who is really to say? All I know is that I saw this in my mind's eye and I know I would be driven to madness if I did not breathe life into it.”  
  
“Is that how it works; an artist will go mad if they do not give birth to the images haunting them? Be it a painting, a work of fiction, a poem, or this?” She gestured towards his piece.

Armin only paused to pick up a champagne flute as a server walked by. “This is how it works for me.” He gave a slight incline of his head as he made a graceful exit, sipping on the black and red current flavored drink. The cocktail was no accident; Armin made sure the colors matched the visceral tone of his current collection.  
  
Shrinking away to another part of the gallery, Armin slipped into the shadows and watched the gala from afar. Even from another room, his latest piece, _Colossus_ , looked terrifying to him. It started with a wall; a wall made of a material Armin himself was not entirely pleased with even now, but he'd settled for appropriated stone from long abandoned castles, towers, and medieval fortresses throughout eastern Europe. A giant, skinless hand clutched the very top, and Armin spent weeks chiseling the stone to make sure the appropriate cracks appeared in the stone to imply the creature's strength. Mechanically, a head rose up from the unseen side of the wall, nearly skinless save for a taut, X shaped band which intersected directly under a long, prominent nose. His teeth and gums were visible, shown in a hideous accidental grin, and his deeply set eyes gleaned down with intelligence defying his monstrous appearance. Not one to shirk from a challenge, Armin took care to install heated smoke machines within the _Colossus_ so that his raw, exposed skin emitted humid steam. Only a few museums in the world are able to accommodate its size, as it stood twenty meters in height altogether. And still I wanted it to be taller, Armin thought with dissatisfaction as he turned away from the crowd, the lights, the praise. For the first time in his artistic career, Armin was disgusted at his own work.  
  
Pleased that the piece would remain in Amsterdam for another nine months before going on tour, Armin's only pleasure came from the knowledge that, come tomorrow evening, he would be safely back home at his loft in Berlin.  
  
Finding a quiet corner to sit in, Armin set his cocktail down and pulled his small messenger bag into his lap. He never went anywhere without his essential tools, among them a small sketchbook and his favorite brand of pencils. Flipping to the page he started on earlier, Armin took a moment to examine his handiwork. One eye looked back up at him, in what Armin mentally envisioned was a male smirking up at him. Going to sketch its mate, Armin tried to figure out the character in which the eyes belonged to. His eyes were undoubtedly shifty, but Armin did not get a sense this was the man's character. He was rough around the edges, that's for sure. More than a criminal glint, though, the eyes held humor, determination, pride and above all, scruples.

Once the second eye was complete, Armin put his tools away and took his now empty flute with him as he returned to the gala being held in his honor.

 

* * *

 

Armin stretched his hands high above his head, relishing the feel of the wind tickling his fingers at 80 km per hour. The drive from Amsterdam to Berlin was a pleasant one when he did not have to drive it, as was the case now. That was what his assistant was there for. They'd gotten a late start, which they anticipated despite promising themselves out loud they would get on the road before noon. But the bubbles kept flowing and the conversation deepened and their heads did not hit their pillows until roughly three in the morning. An early night for Armin under normal circumstances, but with a long haul ahead of him he did not want to pull an all nighter.

“What did you think of that piece in the east wing? The one by Kawazaki?”

“Austere,” his assistant replied with a nose wrinkle. 

“A known trait among Japanese artists,” Armin mused. “I only caught a glimpse of it myself, so I'm hesitant to form an opinion.”

“You were too busy being the toast of Amsterdam's best and brightest of the art community.”

“I'm not altogether trying to garner their favor,” Armin retorted before a sly smile crept along his face. “Their patronage, yes, but they may keep their toasts and accolades to themselves.”

“I think they go hand in hand.” 

Armin did not comment, closing his eyes instead and resting his head back.

A little over an hour into their drive, shortly after passing by the signs for Amersfoort, Armin was roused by his assistant's catcall whistle.

“Lookie there,” she said to the blond, who opened his eyes and caught sight of a hitchhiker in the distance. His skinny jeans tucked into fold-over black Doc Martens, a black RUSH band tank top with arm holes so long they left little to the imagination as to what his sun-kissed toned chest looked like. Mussy hair that was neither blond nor brown nor red but a mixture of all three, save for the deepest, darkest brown root hair that contrasted where he shaved it. Though not overly tall, his lean build gave him the illusion of height. A black, circular drum case was clutched in one hand while a dirty, worn backpack slung over his shoulders. His thumb was out for all motorists to take pity on.

  
Armin turned to his assistant, his blue eyes mischevious as he looked over the rim of his sunglasses.  
  
“Let's see where he's going.”

“He looks American and dirty.”

“Yes, as well as uncomplicated and not likely to cling to me like a wet towel.”

His assistant howled with laughter as she pulled alongside the road two meters from the hitchhiker, who gratefully jogged up to Armin's side.

“ 'Allo,” Armin greeted the young man in pristine but accented English. “Where are you going?”

“Where are _you_ going?” the boy asked back with a heavy Northern Italian accent, his English clumsy but endearing.

Laughter intensified next to Armin, but the blond artist kept his cool.

“Berlin,” Armin replied, resting his pale arms on the edge of the convertible as he gazed upward.

“Isn't that something? I woke up this morning with a craving for curry wurst.”

“Is that so?” Armin said, taking off his sunglasses to look up into the young Italian man's eyes. As soon as they locked eyes, Armin felt his breath catch in his throat. Looking down at him, sparkling with rakish charm, were the eyes in his sketchbook. _How can this be?_  
“Have...have we met?”

The taller boy leaned down and touched Armin's button nose.

“I think I would remember meeting such a cute angel.”

“I'm a boy.”

“I know.” 

Armin wasn't quite sure he believed the other man, but his smile remained.

“All right hot shot, get in. You earned yourself a trip to Berlin.”

With a triumphant yelp, the tanned Italian roughly kissed Armin on the cheek before chucking his belongings in the back before hopping over the side and sinking into the supple leather backseat.

“My name is Jean Kirstein,” the hitchhiker said as Armin's assistant sped off eastbound.  
  
“Ah, so you speak German,” Armin prattled off in perfect German.  
  
“Better than English,” Jean admitted. “Though my father did not stay around long enough for it to become a permanent fixture.” 

“This is Gretchen,” Armin said, gesturing to his assistant. “I'm Armin Arlert.”

Over the next five hours Jean and Armin dominated the conversation, spoken mostly in a cross between Italian, French and English, sharing everything and nothing at all. Armin touched on his childhood in Bern, and Jean only mentioned the small town in the Lombardy region before they decided that was enough personal history.

“Did you strike out alone initially, whenever you started this journey?”  
  
“Yup, all by lonesome,” Jean replied. “I was living in Paris for a couple of years to work on music, but that turned more into watching my friends give up and go back to university or get proper, grown-up jobs. I was sick of waiting tables and went home for a little while. It was the boredom that got to me, though. I needed to move, do something. So I packed up the essentials and decided to see how far I can get hitchhiking.”  
  
“I have never done this, hitchhiking,” Armin said, brushing wind swept hair out of his face as he craned backwards to face their guest. “I feel like I have missed out. Seems very adventurous.”

“Poverty inspires all sorts of adventures,” Jean quipped.  
  
“Yes. But does one need to be impoverished to have such adventures?”  
Cocking his head, Jean thought on the question. _Blondie is sharp!_

“No, but it is my belief that the privileged will not have the same experience.”  
  
“Explain.”  
  
“Because they are not forced to hitchhike; it is a novelty to them. If the adventure becomes too stressful, they can easily get out of it. Like a time out.” He shook his head with a pirate grin. “Those who cannot get out so easily, they must face the problem and solve it. They will have grown and have an enriched experience.”

“You have very strong opinions on the matter.”

Jean shrugged offhandedly. “I speak from my own observations.”

“Do you incorporate these themes into your music?” Armin inquired.

“Themes?” Jean arched a brow.

“Socio-economic classes, traveling through hitchhiking. Do you keep a journal of your notes, snippets of conversations between you and the people you meet?”

Jean stared bewilderedly at the young blond man before breaking out into raucous laughter. “Wow, what is it that you do, Armin?” 

Smirking self-deprecatingly at his own earnestness, Armin replied, “Artist.”

“Aha!”

“What, aha?” Armin did his best to sound offended, but his coy smile gave him away.

“Nothing,” Jean insisted unconvincingly. “Just aha.”  
  
“What will you do when you reach Berlin?”

“Make music, maybe. See all the sights, experience the city,” Hazel eyes glinted at blue hues. “Taste all of the flavors.”  
  
“Are you meeting any friends in Berlin?” Gretchen piped up suddenly, inadvertently disrupting the figurative bridge of undeniable electricity between Jean and Armin.

“Already met them,” Jean replied with a saucy wink to Armin.

 

* * *

 

 

They pulled in to Berlin just after six-thirty, and Armin was out of the car and stretching outside Gretchen's house in Schönenbergwithin ten minutes. Nudging her head for Armin to meet her at the boot of the car as she took her luggage, Gretchen looked as if she were about to burst. 

“What are you going to do with him?” she whispered.

“Probably go have dinner,” Armin said with a cool shrug, avoiding her implications.

“After that,” Gretchen asked with an impatient huff.

“A gentleman does not reveal his tactics of seduction, thank you very much,” Armin said, slamming the boot lock so his assistant could not badger him any longer. Waving goodbye now from the driver's seat, Armin could already hear his phone going off bright and early in an effort to get the juicy details from him.

“Are you hungry?” Armin asked his new companion as he turned on the ignition.

“I could eat something light,” Jean replied nonchalantly from the comfort of the front passenger seat.

“All right. Let's take my things back to my home and leave the car there. I live near a few good places to eat.”

With a nod from Jean, Armin took off deeper into the city, across the Oberbaum Bridge, into the more industrialized area of Friedrichshain. There was much gentrification going on though, and just as Jean was convinced Armin was going to pull into the driveway of one of the many sparkly new apartments, his blond host turned on the off road just around the lane instead. Pulling his car into the docking bay of small warehouse, Armin turned off the car and stretched his arms.  
  
“Home sweet home.” 

“You live here?” Jean asked, looking at the empty space.

“Here is my garage,” Armin explained with a breathy titter as he left the car and went to the boot to retrieve his luggage. Jean followed suit, grabbing his items from the backseat. “I live next door. Follow me.” 

Next door wound up being an even larger warehouse, one where the ground floor was nearly gutted out. Armin entered an industrial service lift and hit the button for the top floor. With an echoing clank that gave the Italian boy a start, the lift rose upward at a snails pace.

“Are you the only one who lives here?” Jean inquired, unsure if it was accurate to call this 'living'.

“So far, yes,” Armin replied. “Funds are currently being raised to turn the ground floor into a community art space, and I have been debating renovating the first floor into lofts or work space for artists to rent. Unsure if I will go for it; I enjoy my solitude when I work.”

Afraid he was going to have to lie about what a pleasant hole in the wall Armin dwelled in, Jean was relieved when the lift came to a jarring halt at the topmost level, opening to a wide and infinitely more habitable area.

“Shoes,” Armin casually reminded Jean, nodding to a large wooden shoe rack directly at their entrance. After depositing their footwear, Armin made a beeline for the far wall while Jean slowly took everything in.  
  
Unmistakably a warehouse still, with gaping, echoing space and exposed brick and pipes, Armin had tricked it out to have the amenities of a proper apartment without those pesky things called walls getting in the way. His galley kitchen ran along the wall to their left, the appliances against the wall for wiring purposes, cabinetry above them, and a rectangular metal and chopping block counter opposite to give the space definition. Along the right side, bookshelves as high as twice Jean's height were bolted with industrial fixtures and covered top to bottom in books. Two comfortably loved couches and a very faux furry rug sat prominently in front of the bookshelves. Armin led them deeper into the warehouse, and Jean caught sight of the bath 'room', or space as it were. Only a meter high tiled wall stood for what could most definitely not be called modesty as the slipper tub and glass encased shower were both on display for any houseguest to see. The shower gave Jean the vague impression of the kind of glass box a doll would be kept in. He would have snickered if the thought did not freak him out so much.

Against the back windowed wall stood a proud bed with layers and layers of soft white hangings rigged overhead to drape around and keep out intrusive morning sunlight. Metal shelves and two clothes wheeled racks were shoved in the corner alcove, all containing Armin's apparel and whatnot. Hanging on the exposed brick walls throughout the warehouse were maps of various shapes, regions and antiquity; some were modern, some proudly displayed empires throughout human history. There was an order to them, the oldest map of Pangea nearest to the door, with the sleeker, most current maps decorating the bedroom space in the corner.  
  
A steel staircase led up to a small mezzanine filled with more heavily stocked bookshelves and led off into an an unseen area.

“My workspace is up there,” Armin explained as Jean craned his neck snoopily. Blushing at his blatant awe, Jean watched as Armin walked over to him, a predatory gleam in his big, blue eyes. Jean shifted, but held his gaze steadily. 

“Ah,” Jean replied, feeling like a piece of meat under that heavy stare. How could someone so small look so ferocious?

“Still hungry for something light?” Armin asked standing directly in front of Jean, one hand on a jutted out hip. Jean recognized the pose as a challenge and responded accordingly.

“Starving.” 

Hands tore at clothes, liberating skin to touch skin; lips on lips, hungry with the want of a mysterious hunger neither man could name. Two starving wanderers finally meeting the only person who can satiate the craving neither boy realized they carried until the moment their eyes met six long hours ago. Doing his best to carry a now pleasingly naked Armin over to the bed, Jean's feet were having trouble kicking away his tight denim, dragging it across the paint stained warehouse floor. He tripped, accidentally slamming the artist up against the window. Before Jean could mumble a hasty apology, Armin tightened his grip on the taller boy and took a demanding lead.

Pausing only for the necessary lube and protection, Jean was only too happy to follow all of the instructions his petit commander assaulted him with. The taller boy would not have pegged Armin for having a touch of exhibitionism in him, but the blond boy proved him wrong by demanding to be fucked against the window. _He's so loud_ , Jean thought with perverse glee, enjoying the way their voices echoed in the high ceilinged warehouse. Harder and deeper, Jean obeyed as his lover rode his cock, practically bouncing between their heaving bodies at the glass, until finally Jean felt his knees begin to buckle and he had to move to the bed for their mutual sweat soaked climax.

Unsure he should ruin the moment by talking, Jean played it safe and curled around the young artist instead, falling into a hard slumber.

* * *

 

Sometime in the night, Armin sat up, bleary eyed but awake. His body was trained to work at night; while the world was quiet and slept, he could adequately listen to his thoughts and flesh out projects. Groaning, he wanted to tell his mind to stop buzzing at him to get up and go upstairs to his studio, that he was on a much deserved vacation, but his brain would not listen. Sighing, Armin looked down at the young man in his bed. A little trail of saliva trickled out of the corner of Jean's mouth and for whatever reason, Armin found it endearing. Normally he would not give a one night lover a second glance; he would simply get up and hope the young man in question would have enough tact to let himself out without any awkward, empty promises. For reasons he could not place, though, Armin did not want Jean to leave his bed. Tracing the bridge of the Italian's nose, Armin hummed quietly to himself, thinking on his sketch. Those eyes. _How did I know?_ A premonition? It must have been. 

The thought unnerved him more than gave him romantic notions; he hadn't been bullshitting the young art journalist when he said his inspirations came from dreams, or rather, nightmares. Nightmares that plagued him since childhood, distorted images of a horrible, suffocating world where giants terrorized people. He only ever saw bits and pieces, like the hand coming over the wall. That was his first nightmare, the first dream he could recollect, at the tender age of four. It haunted him and he did not know why. Armin saw a psychiatrist for years, dream therapists, even consulted scientists on dream study. They told him that he could only dream faces he had seen in real life. What about scenery, or those giants? They weren't people, of course, some had said, much to Armin's chagrin. He had hoped constructing the dream, forcing it out of his mind and into a reality he controlled, would help him overcome his crippling fear. Was his reward now premonitions of pretty boys to bed?

Armin gave a soft snort of laughter before sliding out of bed and heading to his bathing area behind the meter high wall and folding screen. After showering and drying off, Armin put on a simple oversized paint stained dress shirt and shorts before heading upstairs.

 

* * *

 

Jean woke sometime in the early hours of the morning, well before the sun was due to rise but the sky was just beginning to go from pitch to a lighter gradient of blues. He was surprised to find himself alone, and judging by the cool covers, alone for some time. Vaguely he heard music coming from upstairs. Slipping out of bed, Jean stretched and walked towards the kitchen, feeling genuinely famished. He wondered if Armin ate already. Would the other boy want him to leave? Jean was unsure. He liked the offbeat little oddball, truth be told. He's weird and smart and artsy and sexy. Jean looked down at his naked body and shook his head. All he had to offer the blond was his body and company, which he admitted can be charming at times but Armin would tire of it quick, as all of his previous lovers had. Smart guys like Armin needed someone to offer him substance.  
  
_Or sustenance_ , Jean thought as he decided to make a big 4:00am breakfast for two. Maybe have another round and see what Armin's thoughts are on Jean sticking around. At least until he found a place of his own. His confidence in full swing now, Jean marched over to the fridge, opened it, and slammed the door so hard all of its meager contents rattle violently.  
“What the fuck!” Jean cried, terrified of the horror film he had just spied. Forget that idea. In lieu of food, Jean went over to his belongings, removing a towel from his drum case before jumping in the shower.

 

* * *

  

Armin sat at his drafting table, idly doodling. After his initial burst of energy earlier, the artist found himself winding down with freeform sketching and stream of conscious writing. These exercises brought out the ideas that clamored and collided with one another, relaxing his state of mind just enough to put a little order into his creative flow. Jolting out of his reverie as he heard loud Italian swearing, Armin tapped his pencil and wondered if he ought to check on his houseguest. Having a man in his bed was nothing new, especially one he'd met mere hours prior to sexually devouring him. What was peculiar, however, was the pressing yearning to keep the road worn traveler around. Why him, of all people? He wasn't exactly of the high-brow, über cerebral, over-analytical stock Armin typically circulated with or bedded, and yet every time the blond artist gazed into the Italian's eyes, intuition told him that Jean's lackadaisical mien was sequestering a deeper fire within, something to truly reckon with. Had he not already been called every name in the book – a spastic freak, a weirdo with his head in the clouds, lunatic – Armin would have played off his perceptivity and suppressed his sixth sense until he annihilated it irrevocably. As he had endured the hell of social ridicule, though, and pursued his literal and metaphorical dreams, Armin's curiosity to see his instinct through was too tenacious to discount.

Finding Jean just exiting the shower by the time he pried himself away from his work, Armin leaned against the wall and admired the view. Jean gave a startled yelp when he turned around and saw the petite young man there. 

“Pervert,” Jean admonished, sticking his tongue out as he wrapped his towel around his waist and began to pick up his previously tossed about clothes. “You know, I was going to be so sweet and make you the most delicious breakfast you had ever tasted...but then I opened the refrigerator and oh my god!”

Armin quirked a brow curiously. “Did I leave something in there? I'm bad about cleaning it out before I go away.” 

“It was unholy, whatever you left in there. I will have to wear gloves and a mask before I try to clean it.”

“Oh?” Armin asked casually, taking Jean's pants and shirt out of his hands as the taller boy searched for his socks and underwear. Armin folded them as he replied, “Are you offering to be my housemaid now? Going to put around and clean up after the absentminded artist?”

“Well someone ought to watch over you.”

“I have my assistant.”

“Yes, but she does not live here. Making sure your appliances do not evolve into a science experiment gone wrong...making sure you eat, sleep, bask in the sunshine once in a while. You artists are notorious for locking yourselves within your own little warped world.” 

“What happened to forming a band?” Armin asked with a quirked brow.

Jean shrugged. “Who says I can't do both?”

Brusquely looking away from his impromptu houseguest in consternation, Armin found his heart palpitating as the eyes of both Jean and his sketch began to haunt him again. What is he fighting? The incontrovertible truth was literally staring at him in the face, and yet an impenetrable fortification stood between himself and enlightenment. Something was so very belonging, and likewise so very erroneous.  
  
Disheartened that his banter was not as clever as he presumed it to be, Jean took the Armin's sudden pensiveness as a sign he'd overstayed his welcome.

“Listen. It's still dark out. If it's okay with you, I'd like to sleep a while longer. I'll head out when the stores begin to open.” He held out his hand for Armin to hand him his clothes, ready to pack them. Armin hesitated, folding the band shirt over and over again.

“Where will you go?” Armin inquired softly, finding himself caring despite his history of disposable lovers.

Jean shrugged. “A hostel, or maybe back on the road. See if another cute blond picks me up.” 

Armin did not appreciate the joke. “Is that what you do? Stick your thumb out and only take rides from pretty boys _you_ plan to ride later?”

“Taking strange men back to your place to fuck; is that what you do?” 

“Yes,” Armin replied simply, handing Jean his shirt but kept the denim over his shoulder, stepping just out of reach.

Jean looked down at his shirt; something in him resisted packing it.  
  
Keeping his eyes downcast, Jean raised his brows as he retorted, “You can fuck me. Provided my novelty has not yet worn off.”

Armin smirked, avoiding eye contact as he pretended to debate the offer. “No, your novelty has not worn off. There is still less than twenty-four hours of knowing one another, after all.”

A crooked grin spread across Jean's face as he rose and put his hands on his hips. His hair dripped on his shoulder as wagged his head and said, “So we are still strangers, are we?”

“The strangest.”  
  
“Don't worry, Armin,” Jean quietly promised. “I won't overstay my welcome.”

“I know you won't.”

 

* * *

 

They lay tangled in the sheets together just as the sun was peeking out, causing Armin to sit up and loosen the layers of white netting and drapes so they were kept away from the first rays of morning. Settling back onto Jean's chest, Armin nestled in the crook of the Italian boy's neck and sighed, this time out of contentment.

“I thought we were going to get breakfast,” Jean teased.

“Later,” Armin mumbled, half asleep.

“What were you working on while I slept last night?”

“Trees,” Armin murmured automatically. “Flying through the treetops.”

Jean tittered at that, kissing Armin's sweaty blond head. “Do I make you want to fly through the treetops?” 

“What?” Armin asked, cracking open his eyes.

“You just said you were working on flying through the treetops.” 

“When did I say that?”

“Just now,” Jean answered, cocking an eye at the other boy.

“Hm. Must have written something down in my stream of conscious journal.” Armin mused before closing his eyes again. "Or astral projection."  
  
Jean chocked up the rambling to the artistic temperament.

After a few minutes of post-coital silence, Armin spoke up again. “Jean? If you want, you may stay here...Until you decide where you want to go next, of course.”

“Of course,” Jean repeated softly.

“I do not want to stop you from chasing your dreams.”

“You won't.”

“Dreams,” Armin mused sleepily, “are very important.”


End file.
